


Your night after night

by alterocentrist



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, One Shot, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: With two novels under her belt, and the pressure to begin a third, Héloïse's first spring back in the family home on Belle-Ile is interrupted by an unexpected visit from another bestselling author.The title is from "Felt This Way" by Carly Rae Jepsen.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 140





	Your night after night

**Author's Note:**

> Back again. I've been sitting on this for a couple of weeks now, but work has been overwhelming. Now that summer is around the corner, I've actually had time to edit and proofread this, ready for posting! I read the novel _Beach Read_ by Emily Henry a few months ago and thought, "Hey, this could be gayer!" (This is a regular thought of mine.) 
> 
> I took the spirit of _Beach Read_ and fused it with the spirit of the _Call Me By Your Name_ film and the Italy episode of the TV adaptation of _Normal People_. And then I listened to Carly Rae's _Dedicated Side B_ on repeat until the songs started mixing and remixing in my brain. This is what came out. The warmer seasons are not my favourite, but by god, I tried.
> 
> Your comments give me life. I hope you enjoy.

Héloïse knew that her quiet days were over when she heard the low rattle of the approaching car.

She lowered the book that she was reading and peered out the window of her bedroom on the second floor. The car’s engine turned off, and her cousin Sophie stepped out of the driver’s seat. The passenger door opened and a woman emerged. She was slender and held herself with an easy grace, as if she was always taking in her surroundings, as if she had all the time in the world to do so. Héloïse watched as Sophie popped the car’s hatch open, and the woman reached in for a canvas messenger bag and her suitcase. Sophie was saying something, and the woman waved her off, and then they approached the front door together.

Here we go, Héloïse thought. She straightened her clothes: a loose grey polo shirt and week-old jeans, with the hems cuffed. Barefoot, she padded down the stairs in time to hear Sophie telling the woman about the house’s foyer.

“Héloïse,” Sophie said brightly, spotting her. “Marianne is here.”

“Bonjour.” The woman stepped forward, holding her hand out for a handshake. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” 

Héloïse took the opportunity to examine the woman. Her dark brown hair was cropped short. The cuffs of her terracotta sweater were frayed, and there were stains on the knees of her khaki trousers. “We’ve met before,” she said. “At that festival in Antwerp, remember?”

The woman—Marianne—blinked. She retracted her hand. “Oh, yes, I suppose we did,” she said.

“I understand if you don’t remember,” Héloïse said. “It was a very brief interaction.” In the corner of her vision, she noticed Sophie looking embarrassed. Héloïse knew that the embarrassment was for her, and not for their visitor. She cleared her throat. “Welcome to Belle-Ile, though! I hope you make yourself feel at home.”

At this, Sophie took the chance to intervene. “I’ll show Marianne to her room,” she said.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Héloïse said. “I’ll start dinner. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” She could see Sophie blanch at the question. “I mean, it’s perfectly fine if you are, we can adjust.”

“ _Héloïse_ ,” Sophie said. “We’ll see you at dinner.” She placed a hand on Marianne’s arm and gently tugged her in the direction of the stairs.

* * *

Isabelle, Héloïse’s mother, gave her daughter exactly five days notice of Marianne’s arrival. She called Héloïse on the phone and gushed about an author she had met in Lille. The words “fresh” and “groundbreaking” were dropped at some point. The conversation was recycled, so Héloïse went through its usual motions. Isabelle always met new artists, and she was frequently enamoured by them. However, it seemed more of a provocation for Héloïse than a true endorsement. If Isabelle actually championed them to her networks as she championed them to Héloïse, they would probably be more successful. And so Héloïse would listen patiently, because she knew that eventually, her mother would move on to someone else.

But then Isabelle said something that Héloïse didn’t expect: “Anyway, I told her that she could stay at the house on Belle-Ile for as long as she needs. Maybe get a start on her second book.”

“Wait, when?”

“She gets there on Wednesday. I booked the ferry for her already,” Isabelle said.

“Maman, that’s in five days,” Héloïse said. “Also, _I’m_ at the house.”

“Oh, you are?” Isabelle had an infuriating habit of pretending that she had lost track of Héloïse. “Well, it’s a big house. And Sophie’s there.”

“Sophie is working,” Héloïse told her, through gritted teeth.

“Marianne can look after herself, Héloïse,” Isabelle said. “I’m sure the three of you will enjoy each other’s company, when you find the time to do so. Just… be hospitable, okay?”

There was no refusing Isabelle, not when she had already set the wheels in motion. “Oui, Maman,” Héloïse said. When they hung up, she got on her laptop to look up Marianne. Not that she needed to. Unlike her mother’s previous fixations, Marianne was already somewhat of a household name. She started out on Instagram, posting panels of a science fiction webcomic about a bunch of rebellious youth loosely based on Victor Hugo’s Les Amis de l’ABC from _Les Miserables_ . Her comics caught on, not just with the teenagers on Instagram, but with publishers, who fought to offer her a deal for a graphic novel. The graphic novel _ABC 2050_ came out nearly two years ago, but Marianne had been enjoying a second round of publicity with the release of the official English translation.

Marianne had two different Instagram accounts. The _ABC 2050_ account, which was created first, had more followers, but had been inactive since the book deal was announced. Her personal one was more up to date. She regularly posted about her life and her travels. Her profile photo had the telltale glowing pink-purple circle around it, but Héloïse did not dare press it. Marianne would be arriving soon, and the last thing she needed to know was that Héloïse cared enough about her to check. 

* * *

For dinner, Héloïse opted for the simplicity of chicken thighs and roast vegetables, all cooked in the oven. As she laid out the serving dishes on the dining table, Sophie arrived and began putting one of the plates away. Héloïse looked at her questioningly.

“I just went to check on Marianne,” Sophie told her. “She said she’s too tired to eat and she’s going to bed early.”

“She’ll get hungry,” Héloïse said.

“There’s plenty of bread and cheese and jams here. She can help herself.” Sophie sat down. “You’re really not used to having guests, are you?”

Héloïse sat down, too. “No, I’m not.” She handed Sophie a serving spoon and urged her to start eating.

“Well, most aren’t like children, unless they actually _are_ children,” Sophie said. “Besides, Isabelle told me that Marianne wants some peace and quiet, most of all. We don’t have to wait on her hand and foot.”

Héloïse was not at all surprised that her mother would have told Sophie things that she wouldn’t tell her own daughter. She chose to ignore this. “Paris too loud for her?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Haven’t gotten around to talking to her much yet.” Sophie was silent for a bit, eating a few forkfuls of chicken and vegetables. “You didn’t shake her hand, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“She had her hand out, when she introduced herself,” Sophie said.

“Oh, must have missed it.” Héloïse shrugged.

“You’re not really doing yourself any favours,” Sophie said. “Marianne is like, the hottest author in the country right now. She might tell people that you’re socially stunted, _at least_. Or she might just say you’re just a snobby bitch.”

“I don’t really care about that,” Héloïse said.

Sophie scowled, unconvinced. “Sure you don’t.”

Héloïse didn’t try to convince Sophie otherwise, but she was sure that she didn’t. She had other things to worry about than her reputation.

* * *

The following morning, Héloïse got up with the sun. She had a slice of toast with jam, and noticed that the contents of the bread bin had decreased. She washed down her toast with a cup of warm water, and then got dressed to go for a walk. It was supposed to be spring, though shoulder seasons didn’t exist in Belle-Ile the way they existed in other parts of Europe, or even other parts of France. Héloïse found that, though mild, summer was summer, and winter was winter. But the in-betweens were unpredictable. The sun would scorch one day, but disappear the next, pushed out by cold rains.

It was cool that morning, but the sky was so clear that Héloïse knew it would be warm by the afternoon. It seemed that she had spent her whole life walking around Belle-Ile. She grew up on the mainland, in Rennes, but spent her summers and holidays in their family house on the island. When she was a child, she often thought about the children born on Belle-Ile, before the days of regular ferries. How they must have thought that the island was the whole world. Héloïse wondered if they had felt trapped, forever stuck on this patch of gently rolling hills surrounded by sea. She felt trapped herself, many times, spending the year being shuttled back and forth from Rennes, Belle-Ile and whatever new holiday destination on the continent her mother was convinced was “the place to be”. It was her first time on Belle-Ile in a while.The difference this time was that coming here was a choice. 

She ended up at one of her favourite places on the island, the library at Le Palais. She was greeted by many of the same faces that she had known through childhood. Marcel, her favourite librarian, met her with two mugs in his hand, one of which he handed to Héloïse. It was coffee, the way Héloïse learned how to drink it.

“How did you know I was coming?” Héloïse asked.

“You’ve been turning up every other day since you’ve returned,” Marcel said. “I figured it was a pattern.”

“What if I didn’t turn up?” Héloïse asked.

“Then I’m sure sweet Madame Bonnet wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

Héloïse gasped facetiously. “ _Marcel_ ! Madame Bonnet is _married_.”

“All the more reason. Flirting is better when it’s forbidden.” Marcel winked. He sipped his coffee then began to walk. “Come with me,” he invited. “What are you after today?”

“I just wanted to be surrounded by books, to be honest,” Héloïse said.

“Don’t you have plenty over at your house?” Marcel asked.

“Well, you’ve made me admit it. I’ve come to see you, too, of course. You know how much I love your coffee,” Héloïse said.

“One of these days I’m going to have to start charging,” Marcel said.

A middle-aged woman in shorts and a moisture-wicking polo shirt—tourist, Héloïse deduced quickly—approached her as she and Marcel passed the rack of newspapers. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you -?”

“Yes. I am,” Héloïse said, and then immediately hoped that she didn’t cut her off too abruptly.

“I’m a fan of your novels,” the woman said. “I was very happy when they announced that you won the Prix Femina.”

“Merci,” Héloïse said.

“We were very happy, too,” Marcel piped up. “Did you know that Héloïse is a homegrown star?”

Héloïse slouched. “I wouldn’t call myself a star, just a writer,” she said.

The woman seemed to disregard Héloïse’s comment. “My wife and I both love your books,” she said. “Ah, if only I had known that I was going to run into you here! I would have loved for you to have signed our copies.”

“I’ll send you signed copies,” Héloïse said. She walked over to the library counter. She reached for the pad of sticky notes she knew the librarians always kept by the keyboard, and took a pen as well. She offered these items to the woman. “Give me your details. I’ll send them off.”

“Really?” The woman looked at the things in Héloïse’s hands. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” Héloïse said.

Five minutes of profuse gratitude later, the woman finally departed the library. Héloïse had the sticky note with his address folded and placed in her phone case. She swallowed a big gulp of coffee, watching the way Marcel’s eyes glinted as he looked at her.

“I keep telling you that we should have an official event for you here,” he said. “I can just ring Camille up from the bookstore, get some of your books here, and we can have a reading and a meet and greet for the summer crowd. Camille gets to sell some books, we get some traffic for the library and for the island.”

“I prefer more… organic interactions, like the one we just had,” Héloïse said.

“Then you’d be spending your own money posting books to everyone you met,” Marcel said.

“It’s fine, I can afford it,” Héloïse said.

“Just seems like a missed opportunity, Héloïse,” Marcel said. “You’re a local celebrity.”

“I don’t like that word. I don’t like that status,” Héloïse said. “I’m a writer, that’s all.” That was not true. There were days when Héloïse was desperate to be _just_ a writer. Life didn’t turn out that way. Her first novel was published when she was twenty-two. It was more of a novella, really, but it was shortlisted for the Prix Goncourt du Premier Roman. Her second novel came out four years after that, and it was met with such acclaim that it won the Prix Femina easily. An English edition was released last year, followed by the English edition for her first novel. As for the third novel? Its _necessity_ existed, but not much else beyond that. She had a pending advance from the publisher, ready to go as soon as she told them about her new idea. Most writers would consider this a blessing. Héloïse didn’t know why it felt like a burden. 

She and Marcel had ended up at the front of the library. On the noticeboard was an unofficial, permanent corner dedicated to Héloïse. There was a photo of her pinned there, printed on copy paper from a spotty inkjet, smiling ruefully as she held each novel. The first one in her right hand, the second in her left. She hadn’t even brushed her hair for the photo.

“Well.” Marcel toasted to the Héloïse on the noticeboard, and then to the Héloïse in front of him. “We’re not going anywhere, in case you change your mind.”

Héloïse toasted him back, but she didn’t say anything in return.

* * *

It was late morning when she managed to return to the house. She headed straight to the study, where she pulled copies of each of her novels from two different boxes. They were pristine, after she had wiped them of dust. She picked up one of her preferred blue gel ink pens and opened to the books. She signed them quickly, and then wrapped the books up: first, in plain wrapping paper, and then in a prepaid courier box. She carefully wrote the couple’s address, before taping the box up. She would ask Sophie to post it for her tomorrow on her way to work.

She left the study to find Marianne sitting in the living room. The television was on, playing some rerun of a random drama. Marianne was barely watching. Instead, her attention shifted from her phone out to the open window. She paused when she noticed that Héloïse was in the room.

“Have you had breakfast?” Héloïse asked.

“Yes, I helped myself,” Marianne said

“And I’m guessing you had a midnight snack, too?”

Marianne chuckled. “Yes, I suppose I did,” she said. “I’m sorry, I travelled the entire day yesterday. It takes a lot out of you. You would know.”

“I know,” Héloïse said. “Surely you’d be used to greater distances, though. Paris isn’t that far.”

“Oh, I came from London. London to Paris to Rennes to Quiberon, and then here,” Marianne said. She chuckled again when she saw Héloïse’s reaction. “Ouais, it was a nonstop day for me. I’m very glad to be here, though. This is a lovely home.”

“It’s been in the family since the mid-nineteenth century.” Héloïse looked around the living room. The house had kept its original exterior, maintained decently, though not painstakingly, throughout the generations. The interior, however, had been gradually renovated to more modern fittings throughout the years. The renovations stayed true to the spirit of the original design, except for the kitchen and the bathrooms, which were decidedly contemporary. 

Héloïse turned her attention back to Marianne. “What are you planning on doing today?” She bit her lip when she realised the possible implications of her question. “Not that I’m saying that you _must_ do something today,” she added hastily. “Maman said you were here for leisure, after all.”

“I understood what you meant, don’t worry,” Marianne said. She seemed slightly amused by the whole interaction. “I was actually thinking of exploring the island. It’s my first time here.”

“Well, I’m afraid that you can probably get to every corner of this island in a couple of days, so you may want to pace yourself, depending on how quickly you walk,” Héloïse said.

“I can see how that’s possible, but I _am_ planning to also savour and investigate, not just walk,” Marianne shot back, in the same amused tone she had taken on. “I noticed that there aren’t many cars on the island.”

“There’s not very far to go, and the locals prefer other methods of getting around, and they want visitors to have the same experience. I could come with you to Le Palais and help you rent one of those electric buggies, or a moped, if you like,” Héloïse suggested. And then an idea came to her. “Or we have a spare velo you could use.” She quickly examined Marianne, the length of her. “Frame’s about the right size. We’d just put the seatpost up a bit.”

Marianne agreed.

Together, they went around the back of the house to the storage shed where the gardening gear was kept, along with the bicycles. Héloïse’s own bicycle was leaning against the shed’s exterior wall, under an awning. She unlocked the shed and pulled out an omafiets-style bicycle, its white frame dotted with surface rust in places. She gave it a once over. The tyres were flat, but they probably didn’t need to be replaced yet, and she needed to clean and lubricate the chain. “I’ll sort this out for you, if you’re happy to wait,” she said.

“Merci,” Marianne said.

It took Héloïse the better part of an hour to clean and test the bicycle from top to bottom, to make sure that she wasn’t going to be liable for getting Marianne injured, should anything go wrong. She went back inside the house, where Marianne was back on the couch, typing away on her phone.

“It’s ready,” Héloïse told her.

They adjusted the seatpost to an appropriate height. Marianne thanked her again. Moments later, she shrugged on a light wind jacket, got on the bicycle and pedalled away.

* * *

Héloïse fixed herself a sandwich for lunch. After eating, she sat at her desk in the study. She fired up her laptop. The first thing she checked was her email inbox. There were two emails from her agent and one from her publisher, all asking her about the third novel. The hypothetical third novel. Héloïse proceeded to write half-hearted responses. As soon as the last reply was sent, she shut her laptop and paced around the study.

She was beginning to feel like a fraud. The first two novels had come easily. She wrote the first one while she was still at _university_ , even. The second novel didn’t come as quickly, but as soon as she got the idea, she researched and wrote nonstop. Things were different now. She had made a name for herself. There were expectations attached to that. She was so used to doing her own thing that she didn’t know how to approach being inundated by the opinion of others.

Eventually, she stopped in front of the bookshelves and reorganised them instead. She was reorganising them _again_. It was procrastination, but at least Sophie would approve of it.

* * *

Marianne returned when Héloïse and Sophie were cooking dinner together in the early evening. Her hair, damp with sweat, stuck out in places, and her cheeks were flushed from the sun. She took a glass from the drawers and pulled out one of the glass bottles of water from the fridge. Héloïse watched as Marianne helped herself. She downed that one, and then poured herself another. She smacked her lips after finishing her second glass.

“Remind me to take a water bottle next time,” Marianne said. “It got hot out there!”

“How are you liking the island?” Sophie asked.

“It’s wonderful. Beautiful place. I went around in circles, trying to find a place where I can’t hear the ocean,” Marianne said.

This was an odd thing to say. “Why _wouldn’t_ you want to hear the ocean?” Héloïse asked.

“It’s not that I don’t want to hear the ocean,” Marianne said. “I just wanted to see if it was possible.”

“And?”

“I haven’t worked it out yet. I got too tired.” Marianne shrugged. “I’ll try again another day. I’ve got plenty of time here.”

“You do.” How nice it must be to feel like indefinite tomorrows were opportunities rather than threats. Héloïse stared intently at the pot of water she was boiling for the pasta.

Sophie looked between the two of them. “Does anyone want sangria?” she asked. “I made some.” She took a couple of steps towards the fridge.

“Sure, Sophie,” Héloïse said.

Marianne smiled as she watched Sophie pour the red liquid into glasses. “I did not expect to be having sangria on Belle-Ile.”

“Well, technically, it’s _not_ sangria, since there’s special EU regulations around it.” Héloïse didn’t know why she said that. She was just trying to wind someone up, she guessed. She didn’t care about what the EU wanted things to be called.

“Funny,” Marianne said. “Didn’t you write a book about how the EU was bullshit?”

Héloïse sat up straighter.

“There’s really not much going on here, so we take our little cosmopolitan indulgences where we can,” Sophie said, in a deft move to change the subject. “No joke, Héloïse arrived here with a sack of special rice from Rennes.”

“It’s just Japanese rice,” Héloïse said. “They don’t sell any in Quiberon.”

“It was ten kilograms of rice, Héloïse,” Sophie said. She was smirking, clearly trying to get a rise out of Héloïse in front of Marianne. She handed them a glass of sangria each.

“Japanese rice, huh?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse nodded. “I lived in Japan for nearly a year,” she said. “I wrote that second novel there. The one about the EU being bullshit.”

“Ah, of course,” Marianne said. She raised her glass slightly. “To our little cosmopolitan indulgences.” Her eyes glinted as she brought the glass to her lips.

* * *

In bed that night, Héloïse got on Instagram and found herself on Marianne’s profile. Marianne’s profile photo no longer had the glowing ring. Héloïse scrolled through Marianne’s many posts. She had just been on a short book tour, across Britain and Ireland. Before that, she posted photos of her life in Paris. There were snapshots that gave hints of her home life: a small apartment with a cosy kitchen and framed art hanging on the walls. There was the occasional selfie, Marianne smiling coyly at the camera, her hair at different lengths. There were bird’s eye views of tables with sketchbooks, opened to pages of half-finished sketches.

A heart popped up in the centre of Héloïse’s screen.

“Merde,” she muttered. She jabbed the now-red heart underneath the post she had accidentally liked. The red disappeared. The date on the post was sometime in late 2018. “Merde,” she said again, huffing. She turned off her screen, all but tossed her phone on her nightstand, and rolled over to sleep.

* * *

The days passed uneventfully. Héloïse would rise early to go for a walk, or ride her bicycle to the south coast of the island for a swim. When she came back to the house, Marianne would be gone with the white bicycle. Héloïse would take a shower, sit in her study and try to write, and then she would fix herself lunch. She would usually read after lunch, or watch television, and by midafternoon, Marianne would return.

Without Sophie around, they didn’t talk much. Héloïse would make herself scarce by retreating to the study or to her bedroom. When she did walk around the house, she often found Marianne sitting facing the window, her hand clutching a pencil, hovering over a sketchbook. She couldn’t work out if Marianne actually managed to draw anything.

She passed Marianne doing this very thing while she headed to the study, determined to comb through some of her notebooks to find something useful for her third novel. She ended up looking through a box of books that had been there for a couple of weeks. When she arrived on the island, the first thing she noticed in the study was that most of the books had been untouched. She took it upon herself to sort them and donate the ones that were just gathering dust.

In the box was a copy of _ABC 2050_ , in perfect condition. Héloïse had her own copy in her home in Rennes, and her mother probably had one in her own house as well, so she probably wouldn’t miss this one. Héloïse turned the book over in her hands. It was a hardcover with glossy pages. She sat down on the armchair in the study and flipped through the book. The art was engaging, with bold colours and a confident mastery of technique. Héloïse didn’t consider herself a fan of graphic novels, but she could tell that each panel was planned and completed with careful consideration.

The plot, however, wasn’t outstanding. It was a decent story that had a lively, forward energy. However, it was still set up for its original format of being published on Instagram, and so it was choppy and abrupt in places. The dialogue tended towards exposition. Nonetheless, Héloïse understood its success.

A couple of hours had passed since she sat down with _ABC 2050_. It was nearly time to make dinner. She stood up and straightened her clothes. Closing the book, she walked over to the box and gently returned it there, among the others.

* * *

One morning, Héloïse had forgone her morning walk or swim to tend to the garden. Sophie was a lot better at gardening, but Héloïse gave it a go from time to time. Marianne had gotten up and said a quick hello before setting off, once again, on the bicycle. She was in her study when Marianne alerted her presence by knocking on the open door.

Héloïse peered at the clock for the time. It was just after midday. “You’re early,” she said.

“I thought I would make lunch,” Marianne said. “You’ve been doing all the cooking.”

“Uh, sure.” Héloïse got up and stretched her arms above her head. She had spent the morning feeling out a scene just to see where she would go with it. She didn’t know what she would do with it yet.

Marianne shook her head. “Héloïse, don’t worry. I know my way around the kitchen,” she insisted. She stepped inside the study. “You look like you’ve been working hard. I don’t want to interrupt you any more.”

“It’s okay.” Héloïse pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m just messing around a little bit, that’s all.”

“I somehow doubt that. I’ve read your novels,” Marianne said. She noticed the boxes on the floor. Two boxes with copies of Héloïse’s books, and then the box of the books slated for donation. “Oh.” She bent down and thumbed through them. “Do you live here full-time?” she asked.

“No, I don’t. I haven’t been back here in years, actually,” Héloïse said. Just about seven years, she thought. She realised at that moment that some of the books in the donation box, including _ABC 2050_ , may have been her sister’s. She resisted the urge to rummage. Not in front of Marianne.

Marianne picked up _ABC 2050_. She straightened up and inspected the book with a particular care. “I feel strangely embarrassed, having this around,” she said.

“How come? You should be proud of it,” Héloïse said. “I’m the one with two boxes of my own books here.”

“What’s the story with that?”

“I don’t exactly remember. I think Maman asked my agent to ask the publisher to send some over, should she be here and feel the need to distribute my novels.” Héloïse couldn’t keep the mocking tone out of her voice. It was necessary, for the inevitable question.

“Is your mother close with your agent?” Marianne asked.

“I wouldn’t say close,” Héloïse replied. “She’s more of a meddler, really.”

“Right.” With a finger, Marianne tapped the cover of her book lightly. “I hate to ask this, but,” she bit her lip, “did you like it?”

Héloïse hesitated.“I enjoyed it, but I’m not the biggest reader of science fiction,” she said. “I don’t know what the benchmark is.”

“Ah, that’s right.” Marianne’s eyes flitted downwards for the briefest of moments, perhaps towards the two boxes full of Héloïse’s books. “You probably read a lot more ‘literary’ stuff, I guess. A graphic novel is probably just a bit of fun, in the grand world of literature.” There was very little bitterness in how she said these words. In fact, to Héloïse’s confusion, she was quite matter-of-fact about it.

“I didn’t consider it ‘a bit of fun’. I thought the art was beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Héloïse said. “As for the story… they’re all kind of the same, aren’t they?”

“What do you mean?”

Héloïse considered her next words carefully. “I haven’t read a lot of science fiction, but I’ve read some of the more popular ones, and I find it focuses too much on a world that has amazing technological innovations, but nothing about society has changed. There’s still an underclass, regardless of how accessible the technologies are. And I don’t see many stories that really address that as its deeper theme,” she said.

“Oh.” Marianne squared her shoulders, as if unconsciously gearing for a fight.

“I guess I just want to read more science fiction that acknowledges this divide, or even better, imagines a better world forward, where tech hasn’t just changed the world, but has also reorganised society to be fairer,” Héloïse said.

“So you’re saying _ABC_ is more of the same,” Marianne said.

“I’m not saying that,” Héloïse said. She didn’t really know what she was saying.

“I guess if I wanted to read about the challenges of people under a heavily divided society, I would just read your novels, right?” There was a hardness in Marianne’s gaze that Héloïse didn’t like, mostly because she knew she triggered it.

Yet she didn’t exactly know how to tell Marianne that she believed that there was space for _both_ their stories, and the stories of many others who didn’t have the opportunity. “My novels are more than that,” she said lamely.

“Funny that,” Marianne said. “ _ABC 2050_ is, too.” She placed the book back in the box. “I’m making lunch,” she said, as she turned on her heel. “I hope you like chicken soup.” She walked out of the study, leaving Héloïse listening as her footsteps faded down the corridor.

* * *

Héloïse spent the next few days cursing herself. Again, she would get up before Marianne did, and return from her morning activities after Marianne was gone herself. Besides the stilted lunch after their conversation in the study, it was as if they began making an effort to avoid each other, at least when Sophie wasn’t around. They still sat together at dinnertime, with Sophie acting as bridge and buffer. Héloïse didn’t tell Sophie about what she had said to Marianne, and what Marianne had said to her, but she knew that her cousin was perceptive and would raise the subject of their tension in her own time.

Growing up, Héloïse was often made aware of her sharp tongue and her even sharper mind. It wasn’t something to be proud of, but something to hide, to soften. Her father indulged her opinions in the privacy of his study, both at their home in Rennes and the house on the island, but her mother seemed to devote her life to dulling her daughter’s edges, to make her more acceptable in public conversation. Héloïse somewhat enjoyed the validation of the acclaim her novels received, as she believed that she had written them in the same way that her mind worked. Finally, she thought, there was a place where her thoughts were found acceptable.

She didn’t mean to insult Marianne. In fact, she believed that she could have been more honest about her thoughts on science fiction, and on _ABC 2050_ . Yet, as a writer, she knew that there was nothing to be gained by saying such things to a fellow writer. She knew how difficult it was to wrestle with criticism. Nobody was harder on a writer than the writer herself. Furthermore, it didn’t exactly win her any points as a host. She dreaded what her mother would say if Marianne chose to leave abruptly, or worse, _told_ Isabelle what Héloïse said to her.

She took her bicycle to the library one morning and asked Marcel to recommend some science fiction novels, and graphic novels, if they had any in the catalogue. She asked for a broad range of science fiction, not just space epics or dystopian futures. She emerged with a backpack full of books. She immediately cracked into them as soon as she made herself comfortable at home.

There was a novel to plan, and there were emails to respond to, but when Héloïse got into a reading funk, it was difficult to pull her out.

* * *

“You haven’t been writing,” Sophie said. 

It was Saturday, Sophie’s day off. They were hanging laundry together on the lines outside the house.

“How would you know that?” Héloïse asked.

“You’re usually chattier when you’re writing,” Sophie said. “Even when you were in Japan. You’d message me at all hours of the day. When you get started on something, you’re always sounding off about it.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, Héloïse,” Sophie said. “I know you’ve been struggling. Everyone wants that third book from you, and -”

“And I don’t know if I quite have it in me,” Héloïse completed.

“You’ll get there. One day, an idea will just strike you, and you won’t be able to stop talking about it. I know it.” Sophie smiled, that easy, comforting smile of hers. Héloïse had known her all her life and knew she wasn’t easily shaken. Her feet always seemed firmly planted on the ground. She also lived her life under the assumption that most people worked the same way.

“We’ll see,” Héloïse said. “I _have_ to give them a third novel at some point.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that. You don’t have to give them _anything_ ,” Sophie told her evenly. “Your first two books, you wrote them for yourself, right? Things aren’t _too_ different this time around.”

“But now I have a Prix Femina,” Héloïse said.

“So pretend you don’t,” Sophie said. “You sound sorry for yourself and it’s a bit unbecoming, to be honest.”

Héloïse was taken aback. Nothing Sophie was saying was untrue, though. Authors who won the Prix Femina shouldn’t behave the way Héloïse was behaving. She was lucky to be this successful before the age of thirty. Most writers would be envious of her trajectory. “You’re right,” she finally said. “I’ve been treating it like it’s a burden.”

“If it’s affecting you that much, you should just pretend that it never happened,” Sophie said. Her expression changed, her voice lowered. “Unless there’s something else.”

“Nothing else,” Héloïse said. “I promise.”

* * *

An early summer storm hit the island, forcing most people indoors, including Héloïse and Marianne. Even Sophie’s boss allowed her to work from home, sparing her from the bicycle trip into Le Palais. It seemed like a few weeks’ worth of rain was being dumped onto the island. It came in beats, falling in sheets before petering off to a mist, and then, as if to indicate its regaining strength, a gust of wind would bring in another downpour.

Apart from mealtimes, Héloïse was intent on spending the whole day between her bedroom and in the study. But it was very stuffy in those places, the humidity only exacerbated by the house’s old walls. Héloïse thought she was being ridiculous. This was _her_ house. Why should she shutter herself away to avoid the guest?

So she decided to read in the living room. She had opened the windows earlier that day, and so the breeze from outside passed through pleasantly. Héloïse all but flung herself onto the empty couch and went on reading her book.

“I’ve read that.” Marianne had come into the living room, a thick book cradled in the crook of her left elbow.

Héloïse didn’t know how much time had passed since she had started reading to when Marianne had interrupted her. She sat up on the couch. The book in her hand was the French edition of Ernest Wallenbach’s _Ecotopia_. Héloïse had found that it wasn’t exactly science fiction. Nonetheless, she was engrossed. “Well, what did you think of it?” she asked.

Without invitation, Marianne sat down on the other end of the couch, where Héloïse’s legs had just been stretched out. “I thought he was optimistic about society, but he was strangely fixated on how the place of masculinity and like, heterosexual dynamics, in his so-called utopia,” she said.

“He briefly mentions non-heterosexual relationships, though,” Héloïse said.

“Ouais, _briefly_. But the rest of the book is so coloured with heterosexuality that the mention of anything but becomes insignificant,” Marianne said.

“I think the world that he’s built in the novel is fascinating. I don’t think it would hurt us if we headed towards that direction.”

“I agree with you, but sometimes I’m not sure if he wanted to show its flaws or is just enacting out his own fantasies of the kind of world he wants to live in. I’m not sure if it’s exactly the kind of world _I_ want to live in, so ultimately I have some discomfort with it.”

“Okay, that’s fair enough.” Héloïse nodded at the book in Marianne’s hand. “What are _you_ reading?”

“The third book in Hilary Mantel’s trilogy,” Marianne said. In English, she said, “ _The Mirror and the Light_.”

“The French for that hasn’t been released yet,” Héloïse said.

“Don’t need to read it in French.” Marianne frowned. “Or are you judging me for reading historical fiction?”

“It’s not that,” Héloïse said. “I just didn’t think you’d be interested in rosbif history.”

“Pourquoi pas?”

“Well, _I’m_ not.”

At this, Marianne laughed.

“And _why_ would I judge you for reading historical fiction?” Héloïse asked.

“You’re the one who was being a snob before, making broad swipes about genres,” Marianne said. “You probably think that historical fiction is stodgy, like how you think science fiction is frivolous.”

“I never said science fiction was frivolous,” Héloïse said. “Genre fiction is fine. Any genre. It’s just not my preference.”

“What? Compared to your _literature_?” The way Marianne said it made blood rush to Héloïse’s cheeks.

“I don’t even write literary fiction. I just write… fiction, I guess.” Héloïse found her books under the contemporary section of bookstores. She just wrote about life; she never felt the need to put her novels under a certain category.

Marianne exhaled. “I’m frustrated with this long-standing belief that literary stories and genre fiction are mutually exclusive,” she said. “Look at how no science fiction novel has won the Booker Prize.” When Héloïse opened her mouth to respond, Marianne continued talking. “I know it’s a _rosbif_ award, I’m just _saying_.”

“Mantel won the Booker. Twice. And there’s Catton, and Flanagan, so genre fiction isn’t entirely ignored there,” Héloïse said.

“For historical fiction,” Marianne said.

“Shall I call up the Booker committee and ask them to put _your_ book on their next longlist, then? For your literary validation,” Héloïse said.

“I don’t need validation,” Marianne said, her voice increasing in pitch.

Upon feeling that she had gained the upper hand in the conversation, Héloïse shifted in her seat. She could feel a smirk on her lips, but couldn’t be bothered being ashamed of it. “Are you sure?”

Marianne didn’t say anything. Perhaps she was choosing not to. Her eyes dulled, and her jaw tensed. She got to her feet, tucking _The Mirror and the Light_ under her arm. And _then_ : “ _Genre fiction is fine_ ,” she mimicked haughtily. “Merci, Héloïse. The thousands of writers around the world who _dared_ to venture in genre fiction are grateful for your endorsement. It’s worth plenty, after all. Worth a Prix Femina, or a Goncourt shortlist. Something we genre writers will probably never be considered for.” With a sardonic shrug, she walked away, disappearing around the corner, presumably to return to her bedroom upstairs.

It was the Goncourt for a debut novel, but Héloïse thought the correction was irrelevant. She was beginning to regret choosing to leave the peace of her bedroom, or of the study. She tamped the feeling down.

* * *

When the sun returned to Belle-Ile, Héloïse went to the library and was greeted by a scowling Marcel. “Ça va?” she asked.

Marcel’s arms were folded loosely across his chest. Héloïse realised that the scowl was exaggerated, performative. “You’ve been coming here every other day in good weather and you haven’t mentioned your guest,” he said.

“Who? Marianne?”

“Oui,” Marcel said.

“I didn’t know you had to keep track of who was living in my house, Marcel,” Héloïse joked.

“She stopped by the library a few days ago, before the storm. A kid recognised her,” Marcel said. “I introduced myself, and then I asked her if she could do a meet and greet at the library, and she agreed.”

Héloïse’s eyes widened. “She did?”

“Oui, and she was very pleasant about it, too,” Marcel said. “I commend her enthusiasm.”

“I feel like that’s somehow a dig at me,” Héloïse said.

Marcel smiled at her. “It’s only a dig if you feel that it’s a dig,” he said.

“So, Marianne’s little event… When’s it going to be? She hasn’t mentioned it to us, that’s all.” That was an understatement. They hadn’t spoken to each other since that conversation on that stormy day. Not even during mealtimes. Sophie had tried to talk to Héloïse about it but Héloïse had chosen to keep disappearing into the study instead.

“Next week.” Marcel glanced at a calendar on the front counter. “Uh, nine days from now, actually. I visited Camille and she said she needs to order another two boxes of _ABC 2050_ for the event. And I’m getting the younger librarians to promote it heavily on our social media.”

“Well, it’s all happening then,” Héloïse said. “A big event at the library on Belle-Ile!”

“I know.” Marcel clapped his hands together. “It’ll be the event of the season, I can feel it.”

* * *

Nine days later, the three of them piled into the tiny hatchback. Héloïse driving, Marianne in the front passenger seat and Sophie in the back, on account of being the only one who could fit in the space. Neither Héloïse nor Sophie drove often on the island, hence the lack of upkeep on the Renault, but if Marianne was going to get to Le Palais tidy and on time, they needed the car.

Héloïse didn’t even know why she was accompanying Marianne. They still hadn’t had a proper conversation. All she knew was that when she said she was going to get the car ready, Marianne didn’t protest, or told her to just drop her off. And of course, Sophie ended up coming along, too.

The library was buzzing by the time the event started. Héloïse had never seen it so busy. The people inside were mostly teenagers, though there were also a good proportion of people in their early twenties, and older. The furniture had been reshuffled to accommodate everyone, and there was an unvarnished platform towards the back of the library, where Marianne stood as she was introduced by a young, jovial librarian. Off to the side, two long tables have been repurposed: one, as a display for _ABC 2050_ , and another as Marianne’s signing table.

Héloïse stood in the corner, half-obscured by the shelves. There was no need for her to get amongst it. Sophie, on the other hand, hung around on the fringes, managing to snag a seat on the outer edge.

After she was welcomed onto the stage, Marianne sat down across from the librarian. The librarian asked her good questions that lent more of a conversational atmosphere. Marianne was a grounded presence onstage. She had an easy, almost goofy, sense of humour, but could switch tack and make firm, sober statements without being jarring. She talked about how she wanted the main characters in her book to be LGBT, to be working class, to be immigrants. “These are some of the most debased people in the world,” she declared. “I feel that there’s not enough of them in sci-fi and in dystopian fiction. It should make sense that they would thrive in this kind of world, right? They have the longest history of fighting back.”

Héloïse found herself nodding along to Marianne’s words, and was glad that she was hidden from view. She observed the rest of the audience, rapt and eating right out of her palm. After half an hour or so, the librarian transitioned to a short Q&A portion before giving instructions for how the book signing worked.

The book signing took nearly an hour. The library staff had to move more furniture around so that the queue that had formed would be more manageable. Héloïse and Sophie stood back as people went to meet Marianne. She would grin at them and initiate small talk as she signed their copies. The younger people asked for selfies with her as well.

The three of them helped the librarians pack up and reorganise the place once everyone else had left. After profuse thanks from Marcel, they got into the little Renault and headed home.

* * *

When her first book got longlisted for the Goncourt, Héloïse made an Instagram account, at her agent’s strong suggestion. Héloïse wasn’t averse to technology, but she had felt no need for social media, preferring all her communications and life updates to be done through messaging apps. But she gave in, and posted occasionally. Her Instagram account had a few thousand followers, but otherwise, it was a quiet space that she hardly ever checked.

The day after Marianne’s event at the library, Héloïse’s phone kept alerting her to notifications from Instagram. She ignored them so she could go about her daily tasks, but during a lull, she gave in and checked them. She had been tagged or mentioned in a lot of posts, most of which she didn’t even appear in. On the ones that she _did_ , it was just a fuzzy image of her standing in the corner by the bookshelves. Most of the captions were about seeing Marianne at the Le Palais library, and their amazement at spotting Héloïse, too.

“People are tagging me on Instagram,” she mentioned to Marianne and Sophie over dinner. When they didn’t respond, she continued, “I’m surprised they even know who I am.” When Héloïse won the Prix Femina last year, she did a few photo ops for some newspapers and magazines, for short interviews. Young people didn’t subscribe to magazines anymore, as far as she knew. Fewer even read newspapers. She reckoned that her and Marianne didn’t have much overlap in their readers.

“Well, you have quite a striking face, Héloïse, they must have figured it out,” Sophie said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Héloïse’s hand came up to self-consciously touch her jaw. She was aware of how she looked, and she grew up being reminded of it. She dropped her hand and shrugged. “I don’t even use Instagram,” she said. “I should turn my notifications off.”

At this, Marianne put down her fork. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. With a raised eyebrow, she asked, “You _don’t_ use Instagram?”

“I just have one because my agent told me to,” Héloïse said.

“So you don’t use it,” Marianne said.

“Nope.”

“Hmm.” Marianne picked up her fork again. “I could have sworn you did.” She began to eat.

Sophie flashed Héloïse a look, but Héloïse looked away, fixing her eyes on her plate. It came to her suddenly, the memory of accidentally liking Marianne’s post.

* * *

Héloïse arrived home from her morning swim to find a sketchbook on the dining table, its pages laying open. She examined the black and white drawing on the page. A wasteland, essentially, but with ruins in the background that looked like the housing developments that Americans were quite fond of.

“ _The Parable of the Sower_ ,” Marianne spoke from behind her. “Have you read it?”

“Yes.” It was one of the first books she had read from the pile that Marcel had recommended. “I loved Lauren. I wish I could write a character like her.”

“What? Headstrong, intelligent and somewhat idealistic?” Marianne asked. She stood beside Héloïse and traced the pencil marks on the page lightly with her pinky finger. “I think all your characters are like that.”

“Yeah, but nothing much happens to them,” Héloïse said.

“And for that they’re lucky,” Marianne said. “I’d hate for anyone to be in Lauren’s predicament. That’s why it’s fiction.”

“Exactly,” Héloïse said. “But I always feel like I need to be pushing characters into situations that are more dire, to test their mettle or something like that… Instead they’re just bookish and soft-handed.”

Marianne hesitated. “There are worse things to be,” she said, but the statement sounded like a placeholder for something else.

The following afternoon, Marianne came home from a day at the beach. Her short hair was nearly dry, but her skin glowed and there were sprinklings of sand on her calves and ankles. She had her satchel slung across her chest. “Salut,” she greeted Héloïse.

Héloïse had been pouring herself a glass of cold water. Without asking, she poured Marianne a glass as well. “How was your swim?” she asked.

Marianne accepted the glass. “Merci,” she said. “The sea is cold. I always forget.”

“Did you go to the south coast?” Héloïse asked.

“No. Should I have?” Marianne asked.

“The sea is warmer down there,” Héloïse explained. “Calmer, too.”

Marianne drank half the glass in one go. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she said. “Thankfully, it was hot enough today to make up for it, on the ride back.”

“I’m just about to make lunch. Is there anything you _don’t_ want on your sandwich?” Héloïse asked.

“No, I’ll eat anything, thank you,” Marianne said. “But maybe go easy on the mustard?”

“Got it,” Héloïse said. She began assembling the fixings for two sandwiches. From the kitchen counter, she watched as Marianne sat at the dining table. She opened her satchel and pulled out a large sketchbook.

“I wanna show you something.” She opened the sketchbook to a particular page and laid it open on the table. “Viens ici.”

Héloïse wiped her hands on a tea towel and walked over to look at the sketch. It was of a young woman, her hair in a plait down her back, her hands shoved in her pockets. She was looking off into the distance, her face slightly side-on, showing off the contours of her jaw and her cheekbones. Her wide-eyed expression reminded Héloïse of… “Sophie,” she murmured.

“Okay, so it’s partly inspired by her,” Marianne admitted.

“Who is this?”

“Your protagonist,” Marianne said. “The one you always wanted to write.”

Héloïse blinked. “What?”

“I was sitting on that beach thinking about it…” Marianne said. “If you could see her, you’d have a better idea of what she’s going to be like.”

“What she’s going to be like?”

Marianne shrugged, but she was smiling. “Je ne sais pas. That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

* * *

Their routines changed and their daily lives began to meld. And it happened without Héloïse even noticing. She would still get up with the sun, but Marianne would be up with her. They would eat breakfast quietly together, and then go their separate ways. There was an unspoken agreement. If Héloïse was going to Le Palais, she wouldn’t see Marianne there. If Héloïse found herself in Sauzon, Marianne would be somewhere else.

But for lunch, they would once again eat together, and then they would get to work. Héloïse showed Marianne her notes, of a France in the near-future, divided in how to respond to pressing crises, with some societies thriving more than others. Their protagonist—because Héloïse saw her, and her story, as _hers and Marianne’s_ —was a simple girl living in a complicated world. It was a radical version of France that had to rebuild itself from the ground up after the climax of the climate crisis, which was quickly followed by a mega-depression of the economy, causing collapses of food and energy networks throughout the world. Their story was set nearly a century after these events, but their France was not a wasteland. Instead, the country—much like the rest of the European continent—was transformed into a loose set of smaller, interdependent communities. Each community was self-sustaining, with room for barter. Mass industry had died. The finance mechanisms were extinct. And instead of building up to restore previous levels of economic activity, everyone seemed to put effort into avoiding that trajectory.

But it wasn’t a utopia. There would be less problems, but they still existed. And teenagers and young adults would still face a similar sort of existential angst. This was where their protagonist was going to start from. It was a science fiction world, but it was actually a coming-of-age story.

Their world was coming into shape. It was certainly something special, seeing words on paper be transformed into pages of detailed drawings, surpassing what Héloïse could even imagine. With her vast knowledge of science fiction, Marianne was only a great sounding board for plot points, but she was an expert on its look and feel. It was all too easy to make Paris look like _Blade Runner_ , or for Brest to look like an aquatic planet from _Star Wars_. Marianne made parts of their world look fresh, yet fully-formed.

Héloïse looked forward to waking up each morning. It was like she was in Kyoto again, writing her second novel. She relished the solitary mornings, partly in anticipation of the busy afternoons. They sat next to each other at the dining table. Oftentimes they were so close that Héloïse could smell the sea salt on Marianne’s skin, or just about count the mismatched stitches that made up the crude repairs on Marianne’s shorts. When they stopped working to prepare dinner, they would be stiff and bleary-eyed from hunching over notebooks and sketchbooks for hours. Sophie would tell them stories about work, and they would talk about their day with a comfortable humour.

If Sophie thought it was odd, she hadn’t raised it with Héloïse. Perhaps she was just glad that Héloïse was writing again. Héloïse was glad of this, too.

* * *

“I still can’t believe this, you know,” Héloïse said. “This is the last thing I expected to be doing.”

Marianne looked up from her sketchbook. “What? Graphic novels?” she asked. “They’re very lucrative.”

“No, I mean, sci-fi,” Héloïse said.

Marianne returned to drawing. She didn’t look up as she said, “That’s because you’re allergic to genre fiction.” But Héloïse knew that she was teasing.

“All fiction is genre fiction.”

“That’s not what you said a couple of weeks ago,” Marianne said.

“I didn’t say anything like that,” Héloïse said. “Why are you always trying to put words in my mouth?” It surprised her how she found herself asking this without sounding the least bit confrontational.

Marianne paused. “Je suis désolée. I do tend to get defensive,” she admitted. “My dad says it’s my greatest flaw. Insecurity is the artist’s downfall, he said.”

“Is your dad an artist, too?” Héloïse asked. She didn’t know anything about Marianne, she realised.

Marianne shook her head. “I think he wanted to be, but he ended up painting houses instead.”

“And your mum?”

“A homecare nurse,” Marianne answered.

“They must think the world of you,” Héloïse said.

“Well, seeing as my older sister is an accountant and my younger brother is a pharmacist, maybe not so much,” Marianne said, her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “Anyway, science fiction…” She took a deep breath. “It’s just like any other kind of fiction, I guess. It has its tropes, but they’re not rules set in stone. It’s up to the writers to follow them. Or they can subvert, break or satirise them. They’re just playthings.”

“Like Lego,” Héloïse agreed. “You build things with them.”

“Oui. Exactement,” Marianne said, laughing. She flipped through her sketchbook, as a quick recap of what they had been working on for all those afternoons. “You know, this isn’t too different from what you’ve already been writing about: people feeling destabilised, pushed out of their comfort zones, having to see the world change around them and having to struggle to respond to it.”

Héloïse paused to consider that. “Well,” she said. “Now you put it that way…”

* * *

Sophie’s boss was sending her to Rennes for a business trip. Héloïse dropped her off at the ferry terminal and then made a detour to the shops to sort out food for the following days. It was just going to be her and Marianne. She got to the seafood market at Sauzon and picked out some freshly caught fish. She planned to fillet them herself and use the charcoal grill that she found in the shed the other day. She had cleaned it so that it was ready to use.

The other thing Héloïse had done was wiped down the outdoor furniture. “We’re eating outside tonight,” she told Marianne. In the kitchen, she prepared the rice and the miso soup. She took out the jars of pickled daikon that she bought from the Asian supermarket in Rennes. When the soup and rice were ready, she prepared the grill. Cooking the fish was the quickest, yet the trickiest part. “I don’t want to overdo it,” she said to Marianne, as she poked at the bricks of charcoal.

The fish was grilled and served on rice, with the pickles and the miso soup on the side. Héloïse couldn’t find any Japanese beer anywhere, so she settled for serving a French pilsner.

“You learned to cook like this in Japan?” Marianne asked, impressed.

“Not until after months of living there,” Héloïse said. “I lived on convenience store food for breakfast and lunch, and I always went to restaurants for dinner, most days. I had a kitchen in my apartment but I hardly ever used it.”

“How long did you live there for?”

“Nearly eleven months,” Héloïse said.

“Would you go back?” Marianne asked.

“Definitely. It’s a special place to me. I wrote my second novel there. I had a healthy routine, too. I would write for about five or six hours a day, then I’d stop and enjoy the rest of it. I’d wake up the next morning and do the same thing. Like, I didn’t feel bad for having that leisure time, and I didn’t worry that I was suddenly going to get up the next day and have writer’s block. I suppose I felt free,” Héloïse said. She had lived near Kyoto University, which had a sizable population of English-speaking graduate students. She was also fortunate that Kyoto was a tourist town accustomed to foreigners. Still, she made an effort to integrate more with the locals, and tried to pick up the language as best she could. Ultimately, her time there didn’t feel long enough.

Marianne then asked the question she knew was coming: “Why did you come home so soon? You were so close to spending the full year there.”

“My sister died,” Héloïse replied simply.

“Oh.” The colour drained from Marianne’s face. She placed her chopsticks gently on the wooden chopstick rest that Héloïse had brought from Kyoto. “Merde. I’m sorry. I did hear something about that,” she said. “It slipped my mind.”

“It’s fine, it’s been a couple of years,” Héloïse said. “Nearly three years, really.” There was not one day when she didn’t think about her sister’s death. This year, more than ever. Héloïse turned twenty-eight earlier in the spring. Her sister was twenty-eight when she died. The grief was a low-grade thrum, more often than not, but what loomed over her most was the eventuality of her being older than her sister ever was.

“God, I’m sorry,” Marianne said again. She shifted uneasily in her seat.

“She lived here, you know,” Héloïse said. “But she didn’t die here. She took the ferry to Quiberon. Everyone thought she had gone back to Rennes, and nobody in Rennes was actually expecting her. They found her in an inn after a week.”

Marianne’s eyes widened in horror. “It didn’t occur to the people running the inn to check on her?”

“They were elderly. I think they were just happy they were paid upfront,” Héloïse said.

“Your second novel was dedicated to her, I remember,” Marianne said.

“In hindsight, that was useless, as she never lived to read the novel.” Héloïse shrugged. “You bring up my novels a lot,” she remarked. She wanted to change the subject, and hoped that Marianne would go along.

“I may have reread them after your mother invited me to stay here,” Marianne admitted.

“Don’t worry, I won’t quiz you.”

“I gathered that much. You don’t really like talking about them, do you?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse furrowed her brows. “It’s not that I don’t like talking about them, it’s that I don’t really feel the need to,” she said. “I know it’s a sin to say this, but I’m not too fond of book tours. I will do them, since I’m fortunate to be in this profession, to have the privilege of travelling to talk about my writing, but… I mostly wish the books just spoke for themselves.”

“Most of the work of being a published author is marketing, I’ve found,” Marianne said.

“I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining,” Héloïse began.

Marianne waved her off. “No, it’s fine, Héloïse. I understand what you’re saying.”

* * *

The second night Sophie was away, they had a simpler dinner—Marianne whipped up a pasta dish—and after cleaning up, they ended up talking late into the night. It started out from a discussion of the different literary scenes around France, particularly Rennes and Paris, where each of them lived. The conversation eventually moved onto their favourite writers, and which of them they would consider their influences. Héloïse learned that Marianne got into science fiction through the French writers of the genre, but ultimately favoured the Anglophones, who had more prominent women in their sci-fi canon. In turn, Héloïse told her that she felt similarly about contemporary French novels.

“I remember the first time I read Ann Patchett, and Barbara Kingsolver… Hilary Mantel, and like, _Toni Morrison_. Wow,” Héloïse said. “They’re not as bogged down as we are, with conventions and stuff like that, don’t you think? They have more room to write about whatever they want. There’s more variety there. I feel like French novels are kind of the same.”

“I disagree, I think the variety _is_ there, but I do see what you mean about us being bogged down,” Marianne said. “It’s a matter of perception, partly. I feel like the Anglosphere thinks we’re so liberated, but we’re actually quite stuck in our own ways.”

Héloïse then found out that Marianne had been living with her parents in her childhood home in Paris, but she only stayed there for a few months at a time, like a base of sorts. She was in Lille for a bit, and then in Amsterdam, and Milan. When she saved up some money, she would get on the train and wander aimlessly around the continent. She could finally afford to rent her own apartment once her full payment from the publisher came through for _ABC 2050_.

Marianne asked her where she lived.

“I have a townhouse in Rennes. It’s actually not far from the house I grew up in.” Héloïse bought the townhouse after her first book was published, but the deposit she paid was from a trust her parents had kept for her. She didn’t mention it, because she suddenly felt self-conscious of her relative wealth, compared to Marianne’s. “I’ve only ever lived in Rennes. And Kyoto.”

“Out of interest, why Kyoto?” Marianne asked.

“Tokyo and Osaka were too busy for me. Kyoto was lovely, not to mention less expensive. It was a tourist town, still, but life moved a bit slower there,” Héloïse said. “When I started planning my second novel, I just felt like that’s where I had to be.” 

“Do you think that distance helped?”

“It’s not so much the distance as it was _Japan_. It’s okay being an expat there, if you’re already relatively well-off in the first place, but the amount of red tape and bullshit they make all foreigners go through is just exhausting. They were fiercely isolationist, and they still are, except they wrap it all up in bureaucracy,” Héloïse said. Her second novel was a speculative story about Europe in the near-future, after the European Union had collapsed, resulting in all its former members adopting some degree of isolationism. It was not about the political intrigue, but about an ensemble of characters from across the continent and how their lives had changed.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Marianne said.

“I recognise different places around Europe in your book,” Héloïse commented. “I know it’s only meant to be set in Paris, but because it’s so far into the future… The minarets of Belgrade, the stairs all around Porto, the funky subway stations of Stockholm, velos littering the streets like they would in Amsterdam.”

Marianne was smiling, though her gaze was cast down, bashful. “You remember a lot.”

“I examine a lot,” Héloïse said.

Their eyes met. Marianne cleared her throat and directed the conversation elsewhere.

It was nearly midnight by the time they both decided to turn in. Héloïse cracked open a window before crawling into bed. She felt warm and woozy in the best way, but then remembered she only had two glasses of red wine: one at dinner, and one afterwards. She was confused, but smiled, despite herself. Was it possible to get drunk on conversation?

* * *

A heavy cloud hung over the island for two days, threatening to break but never quite doing so. A warm wind blew every so often. The people of Belle-Ile went on with their lives, listless and irritable from the constant mugginess.

For the first time, Héloïse and Marianne decided to venture out together. They rode their bicycles towards Locmaria. The waters of the southern coast were generally calmer than the rest of the island, but even they behaved restlessly with the weather. Nonetheless, it was still safe enough to swim. It was warm enough for the water to be refreshing, but because the sun had disappeared, coming out of the water just made them feel clammy. They dried off as best they could, then packed their things and got back on the bicycles.

Héloïse regarded Marianne, sitting on the white bicycle. She had sand on her calves, and her face was shiny with a combination of seawater and sweat.

“What?” Marianne asked.

“Nothing,” Héloïse said. “That velo belonged to my sister, that’s all.”

They took showers when they got home, and then met back up at the dining table to continue writing and creating. It became evident after a while that neither of them were in the working mood. It was just too hot and stuffy, even with the windows open. Héloïse was on her laptop, but instead of working, she would just incessantly refresh the weather page.

“What are you waiting for?” Marianne asked.

“The rain to come.”

Marianne closed her sketchbook. “Were you and your sister close?” she asked.

“I guess so. We were very different,” Héloïse said.

“How so?”

“She was funny. She could make a whole room full of people laugh. I envied that about her.” Héloïse couldn’t help but smile at the memories of her sister holding court to a captive audience, even when they were little. “Papa, he was a good father, I think, decent enough, but there was something off about him. He looked like he was always running away from the dark… I don’t know how else to put it.” She took a deep breath. “I guess it runs in the family, because my sister and I grew up feeling that way a lot of the time. She was always better at fighting it off than I was, though.” Héloïse couldn’t tell Marianne the rest of the story. She had been so caught up in her own life that she didn’t notice that her sister had stopped running. Unwittingly, by giving herself over to it, Héloïse had outlasted her sister.

Marianne’s next question was quieter: “What was her name?”

“Mathilde.”

Héloïse watched as Marianne’s jaw slackened. Mathilde was the name of their protagonist.

* * *

Later that night, the rain finally came. First, as a shimmering mist, followed by a deluge of white noise that blanketed Belle-Ile. Héloïse swore she heard the house sigh in relief, but it could have just been her. She was already in bed, reading, and continued to do so until she decided that she was going to get up for a glass of water.

But that wasn’t where she headed. It seemed that legs willed to take her elsewhere. Instead of going downstairs, to the kitchen, she was knocking on Marianne’s door.

“Entrez!” Marianne sang out from the other side.

The door creaked as Héloïse pushed it open. Marianne was stretched out on her bed, her laptop open beside her. She was only wearing shorts and a tank top. “I’m sorry. Was I disturbing you?” Héloïse asked.

Marianne sat up and rearranged the pillows, and then leaned against them so that they were propping her up. “Not at all. I was just watching some YouTube videos,” she said. “They’re just a mindless way to spend time. Sometimes I’d just blink and it would already be midnight. Good thing you came, then.” Her brows knitted together. “Ça va?”

“Oui,” Héloïse said. “It’s raining, that’s all.”

“Ouais, je peux l’entendre.” Marianne chuckled. “Is _that_ all?”

Héloïse closed the door. She sat on the edge of Marianne’s bed. “No,” she said. She fidgeted. She felt like there was an electric current running through her body, and she couldn’t explain why. She stared Marianne’s tanned legs, the sheer _length_ of them further emphasised by the hem of her shorts riding up her thighs. She swallowed.

“Héloïse.” Marianne placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ça va?”

The warmth of Marianne’s hand was what did it. Héloïse turned around, and took in Marianne’s bare arms, and the expanse of skin from her neck to the scoop of her tank top. She could see now that Marianne’s eyes were hazel, contrasting with her tan. The green and gold flecks glowed, as if Marianne was on fire from the inside.

“Héloïse,” Marianne said again.

Héloïse leaned in and pressed her lips against Marianne’s. She assumed she would be met with some resistance, but Marianne’s lips were pliant, giving, and so was her body, which she turned towards Héloïse. Héloïse’s left hand, which was cupping Marianne’s face, crept to the back of her head, raking through the tufts of dark hair. Outside, the rain crashed on the roof and drummed on the windows.

Marianne’s hand gripped at Héloïse’s waist. Her tongue brushed against Héloïse’s lips, coaxing them open. Héloïse obliged, her breath quickening at the sensation of Marianne’s tongue against her teeth. Marianne tried to pull her closer, but then she paused and drew her head back, perhaps upon realising that they were in an awkward position.

“Is this all right?” Héloïse asked. Talking felt strange. Her lips were swollen, and she was sure that her face was flushed, though she hoped it wasn’t.

Marianne nodded. “Is it okay,” she took a second to catch her breath, “is it okay if we lie down?” Her hand did not leave Héloïse’s waist.

“Yeah,” Héloïse breathed. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

“D’accord.” Marianne nodded once more. They instinctively arranged themselves so that Héloïse was half on top of Marianne.

Héloïse could feel the smile on Marianne’s lips as they began to kiss again.

* * *

The next morning, she woke up fully clothed in Marianne’s bed. 

Marianne must have sensed her moving around, because without opening her eyes, she asked: “Whose room was this?”

Héloïse knew that Marianne wanted to find out if the room that she had been staying in—the room they spent the better part of a night kissing in—was her dead sister’s. “This was actually my room,” she told Marianne. “I’m staying in the master’s bedroom. It has an ensuite.”

“Oh,” Marianne said. Her eyes were open now. “Do you want me to make some breakfast?”

“I’m not sure if putting slices of bread in the toaster counts as making breakfast,” Héloïse joked.

“Well, unless you have a better idea,” Marianne said.

“No, that sounds great,” Héloïse said. “Stop pouting.” She punctuated it by kissing Marianne on the lips.

Marianne touched her lips, and then grinned. “We need to talk about this,” she told Héloïse.

“I agree, but _after_ breakfast.”

“Okay.” Marianne shrugged. “But perhaps we should do it some more.”

“Like, as food for thought?” Héloïse waggled her eyebrows.

“God.” Marianne rolled her eyes. Her fingers twisted around the fabric of Héloïse’s t-shirt. “Come here before I change my mind.”

Héloïse did not hesitate.

* * *

After a morning of work and splitting a sandwich for lunch, Héloïse told Marianne that she had to go to the store.

Marianne volunteered to come with her. They took their bicycles and rode towards Le Palais. There was a grocery store closer to them, in Bangor, but the one in Le Palais was bigger, so it was the one Héloïse preferred. She liked the butcher in Le Palais better, too. Marianne laughed at Héloïse’s admittedly long-winded justifications—she was somehow frequently amused by things that Héloïse said—and just hopped on her bike. “On y va,” she told Héloïse, and pedalled off. That put an end to the conversation.

They did their shopping in Le Palais. Héloïse helped Marianne load up some of their purchases carefully in her bicycle basket. And then she saw that the ice cream place was open and an idea came to her. She bought ice cream cones for her and Marianne, and they wheeled their bikes over in the small square outside the tourism office, so they could sit down and eat. Camille, who owned the local bookstore, walked past and waved at them.

When she rounded the corner, Héloïse turned to Marianne: “I’ve known Camille since I was a kid. Papa would take us to her bookstore to stock up for the summer.”

“Was he the reader among your parents?” Marianne asked.

“Oui, he was,” Héloïse said. “Maman preferred theatre, music, films, so my sister and I were pretty well rounded, I guess, in our cultural upbringing… After my first novel was published, she figured she should dip her toe in that area, as well.”

A smile played on Marianne’s lips. “Dipping her toe? At this point, she’s probably better known than you are.”

“I don’t mind that.” Héloïse shrugged. Her mother was better with people anyway. She chuckled. “I remember telling Camille that I would own her bookstore one day. I was so jealous of her. I wanted to be surrounded by books all the time, too.”

“Well, she probably took you seriously, seeing as your family owns half of the properties in Rennes,” Marianne remarked.

Héloïse took a moment to collect herself. It was not very often where someone else reminded her of her wealth. And it was very rare for them to be as blunt as Marianne.

“Pardonne-moi,” Marianne said.

“I don’t stop thinking about it, you know.” Héloïse nibbled the edge of her ice cream cone. “I know I grew up very privileged, and I know that my first novel might have come off as just the musings of a navel-gazing rich girl.” Her debut was a semi-autobiographical story about a young woman moving to Paris for university.

“Well-written, though, that’s why nobody said it was navel-gazing,” Marianne teased.

“No, hardly anybody thought it was navel-gazing because the people saying stuff about it were rich, too. They didn’t know any different.” Héloïse laughed, a little bitterly. “I think it’s why I got the idea for that second novel. I desperately want to put myself in other people’s shoes. But you know, I don’t believe that I’m the first wealthy person who grew up wanting to feel edgier, wanting to feel like I actually worked for something.” She leaned back against the bench they were sitting on and observed Marianne eating her ice cream _too_ thoughtfully. As if she saw how hilarious this conversation actually was: the two of them talking about class over ice cream cones in the middle of a tourist trap town. “I try to get over my rich girl angst. It’s pretty useless.”

“I read once that Karl Marx was a soft-handed brooder, too, but he still wrote _Das Kapital_ anyway,” Marianne said. She knocked the side of her knee against Héloïse’s.

“So you’re saying I should just publish volumes of long-winded economic analysis?”

“Exactly that.”

“Nah.” Héloïse knocked her knee against Marianne’s in return. “I like what we’re doing far better.”

“Me too,” Marianne admitted.

Héloïse finished her ice cream. She stood up and brushed her hand against the front of her shorts.

Marianne did the same. There was an off-kilter smirk on her face, and her eyes were glinting the way they did before she said something sharp. “It may not be a bad idea for you to buy Camille’s bookstore,” she said. “You can live here permanently, and Camille can retire. Win-win.”

Héloïse laughed. “Tais-toi,” she said. “Let’s start heading back.”

* * *

The mugginess returned later that evening. Héloïse felt warm and sticky. Her windows were open and her fan was going on full blast, but this hardly alleviated the feeling. The electric sensation from the previous night had returned, settling in the pit of Héloïse’s stomach. She got out of bed and found herself walking to Marianne’s room.

Marianne was reading in bed when Héloïse entered and closed the door behind her. She put her book down, her lips pursed. “We still need to talk about this,” she said.

“I feel like the day just got away from us.” Héloïse was just half a metre away from the bed, but she stopped there, feeling like Marianne didn’t want her any closer just yet. “Do we have to?”

“Héloïse.”

“Marianne.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “I’m not familiar with Breton customs. Is this a thing you typically do whenever the weather gets all funny?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the window.

“Thing? Like kissing women?” Héloïse said. “I kiss them in all sorts of weather, for the record.”

“Are you bragging now?” Marianne demanded.

“No. We’ll talk if you want to talk.” Héloïse nodded at the empty space beside Marianne. “Can I sit down?”

“Sure.”

Héloïse sat down on the edge of the bed, like she did the night before. “I’m interested in you,” she said flatly. It was the most honest expression she could find. “I like you,” seemed too simple. Anything greater seemed too extreme. _Interested_ was the perfect word. The more she learned about Marianne, the more she wanted to know.

Marianne gulped. She stared at her, hard. “I- I bet you’re interested in women in all other kinds of weather, too.”

“No.” Héloïse inched closer to her. “Just you. Right now, and for the foreseeable future.”

This time, Marianne reached out for her, their mouths meeting and moving together languidly. When Héloïse’s teeth scraped her bottom lip, Marianne gasped. Her hands skated under the hem of Héloïse’s tank top. She pulled away and gave Héloïse a questioning look.

Héloïse held Marianne’s gaze. “Yes,” she whispered. She curled her fingers around the hem of her tank top and took it off herself, tossing it on the floor. 

Marianne’s eyes widened at the sight of Héloïse’s bare chest. She sat up and allowed Héloïse to take _her_ top off, too. She pulled Héloïse on top of her. The air around them was warm and heavy, and as their chests pressed against each other, Héloïse could feel herself sweating already, but she didn’t care. 

Héloïse tried to keep focus, but she couldn’t keep track of what was going on. Their bodies moved together as if, all this time, they already knew how. Eventually they were naked, and by that time, Héloïse had forgotten about the warmth and the sweat and the thick air in the room. All she thought about was Marianne’s body underneath hers, Marianne rocking her hips into her hand, Marianne moaning and whimpering at every thrust of Héloïse’s fingers.

* * *

A soft hand on her shoulder gently shook her awake.

She had been sleeping on her side, and up until a few seconds ago, was vaguely aware of another body behind her. She turned to look at Marianne, her eyes bright and her hair tousled. “Good morning,” she murmured.

“Your phone won’t stop going off, couldn’t you hear?” Marianne traced lines onto her shoulder. The skin there erupted in goosebumps, as if remembering that hand’s work, just a few hours ago.

“It must be Sophie. She told me she’s due to come back today,” Héloïse said. She reached over Marianne to grab her phone from the nightstand, smiling as their naked bodies pressed together. She was right. Sophie was planning to arrive on the island just before dinner. Héloïse relayed this information to Marianne. She typed out a reply to Sophie, then replaced the phone on her nightstand. She curled into Marianne’s side, tossing a leg across hers. 

Marianne wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close.

Héloïse breathed in the scent of Marianne’s chest. “We should show Sophie what we’ve been working on,” she told Marianne.

“You think so?” Marianne asked.

“Ouais,” Héloïse said. “She loved my sister.”

Marianne nodded, her gaze soft on Héloïse.

They decided that they would order in for dinner. There was an Italian place in Le Palais that did good pizza, so they would swing there on the way back from fetching Sophie. When Héloïse received the text from Sophie that she was on the ferry, she waited half an hour before getting in the car. Marianne sat in the front passenger seat.

Sophie was all smiles when she greeted them at the terminal. She was chatty, telling stories about Rennes. On the short drive from the restaurant back to Bangor, Héloïse drove quietly while Sophie and Marianne did most of the talking.

After dinner, Marianne excused herself to go to the bathroom. Sophie sipped her sangria while observing Héloïse. When she lowered her glass, she asked: “So, what’s going on between you and Marianne?”

“What _is_ going on between me and Marianne?” Héloïse asked.

“Bah, I asked you first!”

Héloïse sipped her own drink coyly. “How would you know if there’s anything going on?”

“I sense an absence of tension,” Sophie said.

“We’ve been getting along, hard at work on that project we’re doing,” Héloïse said.

“The comic, graphic novel thing?” Sophie asked.

Héloïse nodded. “I’m not sure what it wants to be yet,” she said. “I think Marianne would have a better idea.”

“A better idea of what?” Marianne returned to the table, picking up her glass.

“Of what we’re working on,” Héloïse told her.

“I thought that was a decision we’re going to make together,” Marianne said.

“Oh.” Héloïse shrugged. “Sure, we’ll talk about it.”

“Tomorrow,” Marianne said, placing a hand over hers, and giving it a squeeze. She withdrew it slowly, as if she didn’t want to draw attention to the gesture. She turned to Sophie. “I made the sangria. I don’t think it’s as good as yours.”

Sophie smiled at her. “It’s just fine,” she said.

* * *

Everyone got ready for bed. Sophie, exhausted from work and the day’s journey, crashed first. Héloïse sat on her own bed, scrolling aimlessly on her phone before tossing it on a pillow. Out in the hallway, she heard footsteps which could only be Marianne’s, walking from the bathroom to her bedroom. This was Héloïse’s little talent. As a child, it was how she decided whether it was worth emerging from her bedroom. If it was her father, or Mathilde, she was more likely to come out. If it was her mother, less likely.

When the sound of the footsteps grew closer, Héloïse opened her door. Her hand clasped around Marianne’s wrist and she tugged her inside. She pressed her against the door and went in for an open-mouthed kiss. Marianne’s tongue was fresh and minty. With the heel of her hand she pushed Héloïse backwards.

“Sophie might hear us,” she gasped.

“Sophie’s catching on anyway,” Héloïse said.

“Quoi?” Marianne’s pupils were blown. “You couldn’t have told me this earlier?”

Héloïse smirked. “I’m telling you now.” Her hands began to roam Marianne’s torso, causing her to sigh. “You’re just gonna have to be really quiet.”

“No.” Marianne turned them around, so this time Héloïse was against the door. “You first.” She reached between Héloïse’s legs, stroking her lightly over her shorts.

“Marianne,” Héloïse said through gritted teeth.

“Quiet, remember?” Marianne used both of her hands to pull down Héloïse’s shorts. She got on her knees and kissed her way up Héloïse’s thigh.

Héloïse was panting by the time Marianne’s hot mouth was where she needed it to be. She tugged at Marianne’s hair, causing Marianne to moan. The sound rocked through Héloïse’s body. She bit her lip to keep herself from moaning too.

* * *

“We’re doing this all backwards,” Marianne whispered.

“What do you mean?” Héloïse asked. She slowly pulled her fingers out of Marianne, then brought her hand up to stroke Marianne’s face. She watched as Marianne took her fingers in her mouth, closing her eyes as she tasted herself on them.

They lay on their sides, face to face, and Marianne’s hand was on Héloïse’s bare hip. They had fallen asleep at some point then woke up in the middle of the night, both seemingly filled with desire. Things happened quickly. Héloïse had gotten Marianne on her back, coaxed her to spread her legs, and then, Marianne had been putty in her hands.

Marianne released Héloïse’s fingers, her lips smacking softly. “I usually take people out on a few dates first, before doing all this,” she said.

“Oh, so you want to go on dates with me?” Héloïse teased.

“Hmm.” Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know yet.”

“Who cares about backwards? Frontwards?” Héloïse said, slightly dismissively. “We can do this however we want, on our own timeline. It’s only ever up to us.”

“You’re only saying that because we’re on an island in the middle of nowhere,” Marianne said.

“I’d do this with you anywhere. And even go to dinner, too. Lunch and breakfast as well, if you so wish,” Héloïse said. She meant it. And just because she couldn’t resist, she added: “And we’re in the Bay of Biscay, actually.”

Marianne sighed. “Tais-toi,” she said, but she was smiling.

* * *

Showing Sophie their project felt deeply personal. There was too much of themselves in it. They agreed to give her the sketchbooks—they had filled two at this point—and they decided to spend a few hours out of the house. They made their way to the wild beaches on the island’s west coast.

“I haven’t written or drawn anything new since _ABC 2050_ was published, until I came to the island,” Marianne admitted.

“I was the same, since my sister died,” Héloïse told her.

“Oh.” Marianne nodded. There was an unspoken understanding between them.

“I’m sorry I said all those things before, about science fiction,” Héloïse said. “I was just looking for an argument.”

“You must have been a pain in the ass at university.”

Héloïse chuckled. “You bet.”

“I’m sorry, too, though. I was defensive because I hadn’t written in a long time, and I felt like a fluke, and like, a part of me knew that what you were saying was entirely true. _ABC 2050_ wasn’t gonna be a book, it was more my love letter to sci-fi and the graphic novels I read growing up… I didn’t expect it to get so popular when it was nothing more than a homage,” Marianne said.

“It’s a beautiful book, Marianne,” Héloïse said. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even me.”

“What did you want to do with our project?” Marianne asked her.

“I don’t know. I was thinking of sending it to my agent, but only if you’re okay with it,” Héloïse responded.

“You and me? Publishing together?”

“Why not?” Héloïse shrugged. “I don’t want to leave Mathilde behind just yet.”

Marianne smiled. “Neither do I.”

“How about I talk to my agent about it, then you talk to yours as well? If they want to see some pages, we’ll scan them through,” Héloïse suggested. Her phone buzzed. She fished it out of her pocket. “Sophie wants us to go back. Are you ready?”

* * *

“You assholes!” Sophie cried out, as they walked in the door. The two sketchbooks were spread open across the dining table. Her eyes were slightly puffy. “Why didn’t you tell me that your main character is called Mathilde?”

Héloïse and Marianne looked at each other, and then they looked at Sophie. They just shrugged in response.

“And,” Sophie took a shuddery breath, “she looks like me? Or am I just seeing that?”

“Oh no, she looks like you,” Marianne said.

“Did you like it?” Héloïse asked.

Through her glassy eyes, Sophie looked at Héloïse as if she was an idiot. “Bien sûr,” she said. “I _love_ it.” She gestured to the sketchbooks behind her. Their Mathilde featured prominently on one page, dressed in a cropped brown leather jacket, her hair pulled back with a yellow bandana. “She’s something special. The whole story is.”

Héloïse nodded. She looked at Marianne, and then she looked at Sophie. She looked at the sketchbooks on the dining table. Something warm and comforting bloomed in her chest. It wasn’t a feeling she experienced often, and certainly not at this intensity. Was this home? Were they her people? “I’m going to call my agent,” she finally said. “Why don’t you two prepare something for lunch?”

* * *

She had expected her agent to be more skeptical. He had made a name for himself by representing literary and contemporary fiction authors, after all. Héloïse had been fully prepared for him to balk at her idea, and she could hear it in his tone too, until she had mentioned Marianne. Clearly, Marianne had been making a name for herself in the industry, and not just in the usual circles. Her agent concluded the conversation by asking for selection of scans from the sketchbooks.

The afternoon that proceeded was leisurely. Instead of working, they nursed glasses of sangria out on the back porch, taking advantage of the sunny, spring day—a welcome change from the previous days’ weather. The three of them had a long conversation about anything and everything. Héloïse and Sophie shared some childhood stories. They compared Rennes and Paris. They talked about the future of the European Union. It wasn’t until they finished off the jug of sangria that they realised that they had been there for hours.

Marianne glanced at her phone. “Merde, I have three missed calls from my agent,” she said.

“Go.” Héloïse ushered her back inside the house.

When she rounded the corner, presumably to talk in the hallway, or in the living room, Sophie exaggeratedly turned towards Héloïse. “So, are you and Marianne together now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Héloïse said.

“She slept in your room last night,” Sophie said.

“God, I knew you’d notice that,” Héloïse groaned.

“What’s the deal then?” Sophie asked.

“I don’t know,” Héloïse repeated. She looked into the house, towards the place she presumed Marianne would be. “I like her, though.”

“And she likes you back. It’s clear.”

Héloïse smiled at this. “Do you think so? We haven’t talked about what would happen once we get off this island.” She paused. “Pardonne-moi.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not planning on going back anytime soon, just so you know.” She hated the thought of leaving Sophie here, especially as they hadn’t spent this much time together in years.

“Héloïse, it’s okay. I’ll be okay here. You have your own life going on in Rennes, and I’ve got a good job here,” Sophie said. She used to live and work in Brest, where her family was from, but when Héloïse’s mother suggested that she live in the house on Belle-Ile, she found work on the island easily. She had been living alone there for nearly a year already.

“Are you sure?” Héloïse asked. “You don’t have to keep staying here because of Mathilde.”

“I really like it here,” Sophie said. “I mean, it makes me feel closer to Mathilde, but I also like my life. Besides, your mother is happy that someone is looking after the house.”

“She should look after it herself,” Héloïse sneered. “You should be in the city.”

“I’ve just been in Rennes and I don’t like it that much. Not the way you do,” Sophie said. “And I know that if I ever change my mind, you’ll be there to help me.”

“Good.”

Marianne stepped back out onto the porch, phone still in her hand. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were so bright they nearly glowed. Her hair stuck up in places. She had been running her hands through it. “I have to return to Paris as soon as possible,” she announced.

“Why?” Sophie asked, as if she noticed that Héloïse couldn’t bring herself to.

“I-” Marianne raked her fingers through her hair again. “I- got a… I sold the film rights to my book. My agent scheduled a meeting with the studio.”

Sophie gasped. “Mon dieu!”

“Wow, Marianne,” was all Héloïse could say. She wanted to be happy for her, and she really did try, but she couldn’t ignore the way her heart sank in her chest.

* * *

That night, Héloïse found herself sitting on the edge of Marianne’s bed again. Only this time, she was watching Marianne sort and pack her things. She observed how meticulous Marianne was. She took each item into account before placing it in one of her bags. Her clothes and other personal items went in the duffel. Her books and her art equipment went in her satchel. She was going to leave on the first ferry, the day after next. That gave them one more day together.

Breathless and overwhelmed, Marianne collapsed on the bed, just beside Héloïse. She stared up at the ceiling. “This is all happening so fast,” she said.

“Do you really have to go so soon?” Héloïse asked her.

Marianne looked at her. “I’m on my agent’s schedule, I’m afraid,” she said. She sat up and shifted uneasily. “I’m not like you, Héloïse. I don’t have your status, your networks, your money… If someone tells me to turn up somewhere, I need to go for it.”

Héloïse felt her hackles raise. “My status? You think people will move mountains for me just because of my _status_?” she asked. She didn’t see herself as a “poor little rich girl”, but she tried her hardest not to use her family’s wealth and connections as leverage. There was no need to anyway, with the Goncourt shortlist and the Prix Femina under her belt, but she didn’t say that out loud.

“It must help,” Marianne said.

“I didn’t ask for them. Just an unfortunate incident of my unfortunate birth.” Héloïse sighed. She really did not want to be doing this. This was pointless, and petty. “Why are you trying to pick a fight?” she asked Marianne. “Am I not allowed to feel upset about you leaving sooner than I thought?”

At this, Marianne’s eyes widened. She reached out for Héloïse. “Pardonne-moi. I want you to know that I don’t blame you for things that you can’t control,” she said quietly. “You must understand why I have to go.”

“I do. I’m happy for you, and I’m _so_ proud of you.” Héloïse softened, too. She accepted Marianne’s hand in hers. “I suppose I’m just scared that you’ll forget me.”

“What?”

“You have a whole other life in Paris,” Héloïse said. “I won’t be there.” She could see it in her mind: Marianne’s whip smart friends, all creative and political. Parties and drinks at her Paris flat. Readings at libraries and comic book shops and going out to bars afterwards. Marianne’s life, with none of Héloïse in it.

“Héloïse.” Marianne sighed. She brought Héloïse’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I couldn’t forget you, even if I tried.”

“Neither.”

“Let’s just… let’s enjoy tonight, and let’s enjoy tomorrow,” Marianne said. “We can think of everything else when we have to.”

Héloïse smiled. “I won’t disagree with that.”

* * *

For the last time, they rode to Le Palais the following morning. They met Marcel and Camille for cake and coffee. Marianne’s movie deal had to be kept hushed up, but there were plenty of other things to talk about. They separated happily on Marianne’s effusive promises to return to the island.

They spent the afternoon on a beach on Locmaria. Because of the warmer and calmer waters, it was the busiest place in Belle-Ile, especially on a fine day. They got in the sea and stayed there for hours, outlasting the teenage lovers and the little kids shadowed by their parents. For a girl who grew up in the suburbs of Paris, Marianne looked comfortable in the sea. She looked perpetually in awe. Héloïse watched her splash about, periodically ducking her head down and reemerging, her hair flattening against her head. Héloïse thought that Marianne had never looked so beautiful.

Exhausted from the sun and the sea, they managed to ride back to the house, where Sophie had just arrived from work. The three of them prepared dinner together. Héloïse worked on a simple teriyaki dish. Marianne sliced fruits for dessert. Sophie handled the drinks and the salad. They moved in the kitchen like they had been doing it for years, instead of merely weeks, and like they would continue doing so for years to come, instead of just for that one evening.

* * *

Héloïse and Marianne went to bed together that night. There was no need to sneak around.

Marianne had entered Héloïse’s room without knocking and closed the door behind her. Héloïse remembered Marianne’s first day on the island. She was pale from the Paris spring. Marianne, in just the space of a few weeks, was wonderfully tanned. Her eyes shone bright against her golden skin. She got into bed beside Héloïse, easily, as if she had been doing it all this time. She took a deep breath. “I know you’re not returning to Rennes anytime soon,” she said.

“I have to sort out Mathilde’s things. Maman won’t do it, and it’s not fair on Sophie,” Héloïse said.

“It seems like a job for you anyway, Héloïse,” Marianne said tenderly. “What about after doing that? Are you staying here to write?”

“That’s the plan. We’ll see,” Héloïse said. She didn’t know where she was going, but for the first time, she didn’t dread the uncertainty. She was so used to peering down her future and seeing milestones she had to achieve. The time with Marianne had awakened an openness in her, a willingness to see opportunities in places where she would normally freak out at the blank slate.

“I want to leave the sketchbooks here, with you,” Marianne told her.

“Pourquoi?” Héloïse wasn’t the artist. All she had was the story, but it was nothing without Marianne’s art, and more importantly, her input. Their collaboration.

“So you know that I’ll come back,” Marianne said.

“You don’t even have to come back,” Héloïse said. “I’ll meet you halfway.”

“You will?”

“Yes.” Héloïse reached out for Marianne, and pulled her on top of her, so that Marianne straddled her. Her hands slid under the hem of Marianne’s t-shirt. She felt the soft, warm skin of Marianne’s stomach, and smiled when she earned a sigh in response. 

* * *

The rain began as Marianne was loading her bag into the car. She got into the passenger seat as Héloïse locked the door. Héloïse hopped into the driver’s seat and they began the short drive to the terminal in Le Palais. Sophie was at work, but that morning, after Héloïse had gotten showered and dressed, she saw Sophie and Marianne hugging goodbye in the living room. Héloïse thought of Mathilde, and it made her wonder what her sister would have thought of Marianne.

The sketchbooks were safe in the study. They decided that their project would be on hold. They would keep talking about it and collecting ideas, but they wouldn’t actively work on it until they were back in the same place. Héloïse was going to stay on the island until she had sorted through her sister’s things, while Marianne would be in Paris until she was no longer needed by the production company. They agreed that as soon as they were both free of obligations, they would meet in Rennes. Not just to continue working on their project, but to keep getting to know each other, to keep deepening their relationship.

Keeping in touch was never going to be a problem, yet it didn’t make this goodbye easier. Héloïse silently willed for minor inconveniences on the drive to Le Palais. A flat tyre. A hitchhiker. People who needed help as their car broke down in the rain. She kept faithfully to the speed limit and even slowed down once rain got heavier and the roads went slick. Yet she still got them to the terminal with plenty of time to spare.

Héloïse parked and turned off the engine. “I wish we had more time,” she said bluntly. “I didn’t intend for all this, I didn’t intend for this to be more than just us, creating together… But I wish we had more time.” She choked on that last statement, and that was when she realised that her cheeks were wet.

Marianne turned to Héloïse. Her eyes were brimming with tears. “Héloïse,” she said quietly.

“I’m not begging you to stay. Well, in my head, I am. I’d swim to chase that ferry if I could, like in the movies, when people chase cars and trains.” Héloïse chuckled weakly, in an attempt to lighten the situation. 

“I bet you can do that easily,” Marianne said, grinning.

“Come on.” Héloïse wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m just telling you how I feel.”

“Well, I would rather not go either, but you know.” Marianne shrugged.

“I know.” Héloïse nodded. She reached out and cupped Marianne’s face. She stroked her cheek with her thumb. “There’s something big waiting for you out there. It’s going to be exciting, and mind-blowing, and I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“And I can’t wait to tell you,” Marianne said. “Promise me you’ll build something while we’re apart.”

“Yes, of course.” Héloïse remembered their conversation about tropes. “I’ll be playful.”

Marianne laughed. “I’m sure you will.”

They got out of the car. The rain was warm on their skin and clothes. Héloïse opened the hatch and they stood underneath it, hunched over, as they were both too tall. There, she leaned in to kiss Marianne. Their last kiss in a while. And then she picked up Marianne’s bags and handed them to her, one by one.

Inside the terminal, they embraced. They breathed each other in. And then Marianne boarded her ferry.

Héloïse only left when she could no longer see Marianne waving goodbye.


End file.
